


A Mockery of a Deity (Deserves no Quarter)

by Anonymous



Series: The Ashes We Create (Burn the Gods to the Ground) [1]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 100 Player Experiments, A mole kills a god — and dies trying, Gen, God Wilbur Soot, I wrote an overdramatic fic about it, Mostly posted this because the series was suddenly revived, Over 3000 words of overly flowery dramatized minecraft experiments. Huh., Villain Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot 100 player experiments, it's really just a dramatic way to say he logged out, no beta we die like men, suicide (kind of), yep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:40:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27429598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: They said all kinds of things when it came to killing a god. Oreli thought they were all fools.Killing the god was the easy part. The hard part was surviving what came next.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Oreli & Endersaltz
Series: The Ashes We Create (Burn the Gods to the Ground) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2022643
Comments: 19
Kudos: 140
Collections: Anonymous





	A Mockery of a Deity (Deserves no Quarter)

**Author's Note:**

> I have no explanation to offer, just a frantic mess that I wrote at 3am and edited an hour ago.
> 
> [EDIT: 21st November, 2020]
> 
> I forgot to add this to my collection of written works, my apologies! As of the 21st of November, I've added this fic (and by association the rest of the series) to my "Absent Works of an Anon" collection, which has everything I've written on AO3 conveniently in one place. As with everything in that collection though, I must warn you that no works within that collection are related to one another unless stated otherwise. So this work is connected only to "An Approximation of Mercy". 
> 
> My main work/series at the moment is "What World Have We Inherited", a separate fic based upon an AU of the Manburg Festival events. It is unrelated to this fic or series, but I am quite proud of it, so if you enjoy my writing style I encourage you to check it out <3

They said all kinds of things when it came to killing a god. Oreli thought they were all fools.

Killing the god was the easy part. The hard part was surviving what came next. 

_____

They were moles. 

The comparison was cruel, he thought. Cruel and yet apt, with their blind digging and aimless cries to the sky for mercy or attention. They were all moles before a storm, blinded and hoping for something more. Reaching up with pleading hands for food, for shelter, for salvation.

He saw the way the god laughed. He saw it in the paradoxical curve of his ramrod straight shoulders and the grin that was too sharp to be human. (And that's what Oreli was — that's what they _all_ were. They were human, not moles.) He saw the way the god's eyes looked when he opened his arms, a guise of promised safety and affection instead of his blood red poisons. It was the same as the expression of glee that followed whenever they fell, prone and cold, before vanishing in a puff of death.

Oreli hated him.

-

There were legends amongst the moles of the surface, a faction that he'd fallen into during the very start of it all. They whispered rumors of an imprisoned man, chained beneath the endless dirt and encased in a barrier one could never hope to break. A cruel god, they said, must have trapped him there for insolence. For disobedience against a force he never could have understood. A battle, they said. There must have been a battle, and the mole (man, damn it. They were human. _Human._ ) had lost, as mortals should against a god. They were so fearful, his fellows. They were eager and fearful and idealistic, praising their tormentor even in their stories.

Oreli knew better. Oreli knew the god trapped him there for fun.

He began digging that day, nails crusted over with dirt and pebbles. He didn't dare yearn for a shovel. He knew what always happened to those who did.

-

_Oreli_ _jerked his head upright, body tensed and eyes wide with paranoia. He could barely see a block in front of him, but he could hear the tentative footsteps. Fear? Or an ambush?_

_Someone rounded the corner._

_"Hi there. I'm_ _Ender._ _It's good to finally see someone down here that isn't going crazy." They scrunched up their face, and he almost smiled._

-

They built together, for a while. Digging up dirt and squishing it into piles, tucking rocks and pebbles into the parts that needed reinforcement. They built a fake bed, a rectangle of soft dirt and evenly shaped stones. It's a shadow of an old life they were all told to forget, and yet they both silently agreed that they never will. Instead they build a monument. They built a couch, they built a room. Oreli allowed himself to relax, and day after day their home made itself. Day after day, he finally let himself breathe.

Ender popped in and out more often than he did, always coming back with something new. Perfectly shaped rocks for the 'television set', an interesting crystal found in one of the mounds of dirt. The broken handle of a shovel. The two of them took their time, molding the dirt that trapped them into something like a home.

Oreli knew better than most, and it made him comfortable. It made him complacent.

It was inevitable for the god to remind him how helpless he truly was.

-

After the end, he contemplated stomping the couch into the dirt that it was.

He left it alone.

He wasn't the one who built it, anyway.

-

_"Oreli, hush!"_

_"Shut up! He could_ hear _you!"_

_"Quiet Oreli!"_

_"You're an idiot, you'll get yourself killed, Oreli!"_

_There was a moment at the very beginning, when the screams of the first few faded into nothingness, coming from everywhere and nowhere amidst his newly blinded eyes. There was a moment, before they truly understood the nature of their position. When Oreli was just a stupid kid, ideals bleeding out his smile and determination poisoning his veins. He'd always been stubborn._

_There was a moment where he sat, motionless on the dirt with his fingers laced behind his head. He stared up at the sky he couldn't see, and whispered a challenge under his breath._

_-_

He stood, head tilted up, eyes heavy lidded and defiant. It was too bright. The sky blinded him, the clouds swirling overhead like smoke off an angry flame. His hand tightened on the bow — on the weapon that was dropped to him with a smirk that was too smug. An acceptance to a challenge that was barely considered such at all. So cocky, so cruel. A god to the core, impossible and ignorant and all-powerful. Everything he despised.

The god had snickered without moving, mocked him without saying a word. Oreli knew for a fact that he didn't even remember who his friend was. He didn't even remember causing his death, while Oreli could never forget it. Just another mole to him. Another wasted experiment.

They hadn't truly known one another for long, he knew that too. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw them collapse with a gasp of agony. He saw them vanish with finality, alone and wretched and afraid. He saw the dirt pour from their pockets, the stones they chose tumble to the ground. He saw his friend stare up at him, unable to comprehend the presence of a sadistic god, seeking comfort and familiarity, and he wasn't there. In the end, he wasn't there.

When he opened his eyes again, his hands no longer shook. He tilted his head back down, and strung his arrow.

When the god hit the ground to fight, still smirking like it was a foregone conclusion, he let it fly.

The small sense of victory evaporated mere seconds after he tasted it. He snapped his bow in two when the god rose again, choking on the bitter ache of loss.

_0-1_

-

A diamond shovel.

Oreli stared down at the offering, stuck inches into the dirt floor. The god had buried it there, grinning pleasantly and whispering words of pride. The shovel's surface glimmered like a beacon, temptation and ease bleeding from every corner.

He knew the truth. He had known it since the beginning, and it was only validated by the endless storming void behind the god's eyes. He was not proud. Oreli was not safe.

Oreli was not a mole.

He reached forward, plucked the shovel from the dirt, and plowed it into the soil. He dug, and as he did he could feel the glee begin to radiate off of the mask of pleasant company. Not a god, but a sadist.

He dug, and then he stopped.

He climbed out. The god, hand raised, caught in readiness to smite, froze, and Oreli sneered. He couldn't help but grin as he dropped the shovel into the hole. Discarded. Unwanted.

_Fuck you._

The rage he knew existed there bubbled, and for a moment the eyes of the god looked more like lightning than pupils.

Oreli closed his eyes, and thought of his friend. He thought of their makeshift home cobbled together on hope and loss.

He turned his back to the angry god, and began to build. Higher. Higher. He built until he was the one looking down, scowl hidden behind his scarf. He built until he could hardly see him, and then he went even further.

_Jump,_ the god commanded. He did. He jumped an inch into the air, landing back perfectly on his perch.

_Jump off,_ the god commanded again, barely suppressed anger stinging like dripping acid. The weight of the command made the air oppressive, leaking out behind the carefully crafted neutral smile. His own lips peeled back into a smile he knew the god couldn't see, and he jumped down one block onto a second foothold.

He was not a mole. He was a human, defiant and enraged and _alive._ It was the god that was helpless, even as he was struck down. It was the god who failed this time, useless without the cloying fear and endless supplication from his subjects. Even as his world faded to black, he savored the expression of rage and disgust that twisted the facade. He knew he had won, and the god knew it too. He knew it in death, and he knew it when he was forced back over the barrier, dropped mere inches from where he had perished.

The god flew away, petulant.

Death tasted like victory.

Victory tasted like power, and ash.

Useless, useless ash.

_1-1_

-

The ground rumbled. Dirt shifted above his head, but he was not afraid. His friend had been careful, methodical when they built the roof.

_(_ " _See, if we pack the rocks in like this, the tension will keep the dirt from caving in._ " _)_

Oreli sat, motionless on the couch, knee deep in memories that made his chest ache. He stared at a wooden sign, and tried to imagine he was home.

-

It was only a matter of time before the god tried to reclaim his power. He had known that ever since he survived. He expected it. He came to bitter peace with it.

He hadn't expected the god to phase into his home, another man in tow.

What he hadn't expected, was for the god to have a champion.

The champion held a sword before him, leveled at Oreli's chest. The god was smug again, casual and cruel and everything Oreli hated as he commanded his champion to fight for him, a puppet on too thin strings. Oreli hated cowards most of all. The god had no right to be a coward.

The champion, however.

The _man._

Oreli saw his dulled eyes first, even before the sword. He saw the slump of his shoulders, the dirt smothering his hair. He saw the broken spirit swirling like clouds of madness. He wondered, almost mournfully, what the god had done to him. The sadist's champion was exhausted, seeking and tired and so, so alone. Oreli knew the feeling.

He pulled the wretched sword that the sadist had given him. Let the moles fight like dogs, cheer them on as gladiators. A blood sport borne of false promises. Glorify the blood they shed and praise them for efficiency. But when he readied himself, he was not preparing to be victorious. He was preparing to be the mercy that the sadist did not possess.

He took his stance, and he lunged.

A flurry of blows, launched from every direction. The other fought like a robot, parrying and clashing like it was all he could fathom. A sword slice to the cheek, a graze of Oreli's side that stung like the poisoned friction of cave spider silk. One slice, one parry. One step, two lunges. They were in combative limbo, trapped in invisible chains borne of netherite and agony, fighting like starving dogs for scraps. For a moment, Oreli thought he would lose. The fear of it made his strikes quicker, his stance steadier. He would not lose. He could not lose. Neither of them could afford that now.

It stopped as quickly as it had began, in the end. The other man's sword had struck too high. He stepped too far, tumbled forward with a lack of grace and an open line of defense, a gap that he couldn't close before Oreli saw it. He seized the chance and plunged his sword forward, it slid into the champion's chest. The shock of it made him freeze. The squelch was sickening, and he could only barely manage to keep himself from retching.

Bitterly, he cursed the sadist as a coward once again. Smiting with magic instead of force to keep his hands spotless. It was a world of dirt, and he had the gall to keep himself _clean_.

The sword sunk deeper, and Oreli's hands wavered. He was moments away from vomiting again. Instead he pushed harder, begging his body to give him the strength for a final kindness.

_Please. Please, let him be strong enough to save_ one. _Just one._

The champion's sword fell from his hands, and they both collapsed together. Oreli was heaving, eyes blown wide and body trembling with terror and adrenaline. The hilt of the blade burned his sweaty palms.

The fallen man stared down at the blade imbedded in his chest. At the blood. Then he looked up.

Oreli felt the other's hand reach for his shoulder, and even as it shook when it rose the grip it offered was strong. Grounding. Not a word exchanged, and yet he understood. Not alone. Not now, at the end.

He inhaled once, and yanked the sword free.

The champion fell. (But unlike the god, he mercifully didn't rise again.)

When the sadist began to clap, Oreli wanted desperately to drench the blade of his sword in new, golden blood. Something that would wash away the stains that laid there. If he hadn't done it once already, known how futile it was, maybe he would have tried.

It wouldn't have been golden anyway, he thought bitterly. Bronze, perhaps. Or tar.

-

What did every person seek, at the end of their painful existence?

They sought freedom. Freedom to breathe, to live, to die by their own will. Freedom could be gripped and stolen, smothered and drowned, but it could be taken back with just as much force. It could be released, if one was determined enough to yank it from the grasp of those who hoarded it.

Or maybe freedom was as simple as a good conversation without hangups. A long winded joke session with a friend in front of a television show neither of them paid attention to. Maybe freedom was tilting your head back, and getting a face full of a sun you could see.

Freedom was different for every person that defined it.

Oreli stared at the mockery of a god, grinning and offering his bitter prize. Cocky. Condescending. Cruel.

Oreli stared at the button that took his freedom and poisoned it.

_Cleanse this garden for me._ The sadist snickered.

Nothing was sacred. This was no god.

He glanced at the couch they had built. He glanced yet again at the fallen sword beside it, matching his own.

He tightened his grip, and smiled. He held true freedom in the palm of his hand, he had no use for a falsehood. He threw his head back, and he barked an exhausted laugh. In the small space, it was far too loud, and he saw the sadist realize what he was planning mere seconds before it happened. The fatal flaw, you see, of the cocky, was their tunnel vision. It made them foolishly blind.

_Nah._

The sword only hurt for a moment. Every second of it was worth the expression on the false-god's face as he realized he had lost again. Lost twice to a _mole_. A mere mortal. A human. Oreli clutched his chest, and the agony of it made him wheeze. He was free, even as his own lifeblood drained; ichor through a stolen tap.

There was no god here, Oreli thought viciously, vision growing spotted and dim. There was only a falsehood, and one that truly held the power. They were not the same.

Victory tasted of iron, dirt, and sugarcane. And then it tasted of nothing at all.

_Oreli has left the game._

_2-1_

_-_

The world thrived on rumors. Folktales and old stories. Most of them glorified those who wrote them. That's why most of them, thought a young duo, were completely unbelievable.

But.

There was one story — one legend, that was whispered underneath the wretched ground. A tale of victory against impossibility, of mournful sacrifices against a false prophet and a falser god.

Perhaps it was the urge to follow the legend that led them here, in the end. The urge to find the victory — the _freedom — that_ others rarely dared dream of.

Perhaps it was simply stubbornness. Neither of the two had been known for making good decisions.

Either way, it didn't matter.

Two siblings entered the obsidian walled prison, faces grim and determined. Inside, they found a champion and a victor, each stood with smiles that bled power and defiance in spades. As they approached, the twins knew it was the beginning of the end. Not a second a hesitation before they reached out to take the offered hands.

" _Welcome to the rebellion. My name is Oreli, and I've killed your god_ _._ " 

-

The hardest part about killing a god was finding the will to pursue the true victory. The one laid behind the tales of glory and loss, grimy from disuse. 

Oreli had once thought they were all fools. But, as he stood beside the champion, arms folded and a shining sword at his side, he realized victory was only achieved with combined power. He knew it to his bones, the way he always had.

He stood, and for once he felt proud. He thought of Ender, and the pride turned to determined, focused rage. He wasn't manic with grief anymore, but the ache still tore a hole in his armor.

He looked over to the side, to where faces lined the room, war-torn and weary, and his expression hardened to strength. He would save them. They would save themselves. This time the sadist would not rise again.

He smiled, even though they couldn't see it, and reached out to shake the traitorous admin's hand.

There was talk of Wilbur Soot vanishing from their world. The few that survived his reign were among their ranks, biding time. Oreli and the champion knew even more. They were content to let the sadist play hero — let him try and find victory where he lost it before. Imitation was the finest form of flattery, wasn't it?

When he failed — and he _would_ fail, as any being pretending to be a god pretending to be a man would — they would be waiting.

They would _rise_.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know how this happened. I really have no clue.


End file.
